Blow Out, You Bugles!
Rupert Brooke, John Ireland
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene
That men call age; and those who would have been
Their sons, they gave, their immortality
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain
Honour has come back, as a king, to еarth
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Noblenеss walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage